


In Praise of Difficult Women

by Polomonkey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Female Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9155797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: There was a part of her that never ceased to be amazed by how easily Rosie fitted on the curve of her hip, how strong she felt when she hefted the baby in her arms.Molly babysits Rosie in the aftermath.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The new episode made me very sad so here I am, trying to work it out. Fills my h/c bingo square 'heart attack/heart troubles' and contains spoilers for The Six Thatchers.

Rosie falls asleep within seconds of Molly putting her down for a nap. She’s been fussy when Molly babysat before, sleeping fitfully, liking the reassurance of having someone else in the room with her. Molly never minded. She’d bring the rocker into the lounge and put the television on low, then gently tip Rosie back and forth until she was lulled to slumber. Rosie doesn’t settle well at home either apparently, Mary always said that-

Mary.

Molly feels vomit rise in her throat, so quick and sudden she’s heaving before she’s halfway to the sink. But nothing comes up when she’s there. A lifetime of swallowing down bile in front of corpses on cold metal tables has given Molly a steel stomach.

She can’t cry, either. Hasn’t for days. Not since the doorbell rang that night and she’d been so cross because she’d finally got Rosie to sleep so she’d lifted her up and took her to the door and there was a policewoman there and then… and then…

Rosie was a solid weight on her side as they stood there, little fingers curled in Molly’s cardigan. Molly had been afraid to hold her at first. She was so small and Molly had never spent much time around children before. There was a part of her that never ceased to be amazed by how easily Rosie fitted on the curve of her hip, how strong she felt when she hefted the baby in her arms.

Molly doesn’t feel strong, usually. She feels insubstantial, flimsy, timid. Other people talk so loud. They fill up a room with their noise and their smell and their flapping hands. Molly hugs the walls when that happens, smiles and nods and plans her retreat. Back to the morgue, back to somewhere she can hear herself think.

At least the corpses are quiet.

She’d been afraid of Mary too, once. Or not afraid, exactly, but wary. Because Mary had lived a thousand lives and outfoxed the greatest minds and done and seen things beyond imagining. Molly felt small next to her. Like Mary would sneer at her, or ignore her, or – worst of all – pity her.

Mary hadn’t. She’d seemed relieved, sometimes, to come away from the hustle and bustle of 221B and sit beside Molly. Even if Molly’s words stuck in her mouth, Mary would just smile and half close her eyes. She told Molly once that she liked that about her.

“You bring peace wherever you go. It’s a gift.”

It isn’t a gift Molly wants. She wants to bring havoc where she goes, and chaos. She wants to grow to a hundred feet and stride across London, men scattering in her wake.

And at the same time she wants to be quiet as she is and hug the wall and have someone love that about her.

She doesn’t want peace. But she doesn’t want its opposite either. She doesn’t want to die on a cold aquarium floor.

“Shot through the heart,” Mrs Hudson whispered at the funeral. Molly didn’t know if that was exactly true but it stayed with her. Lately Molly’s been thinking about the word heartbroken a lot.

Lately Molly’s been walking late at night, listening to her own heart beat sure and fast in her chest. Lately she’s been noticing the strength in her arms as she lifts Rosie to her chest, the size of her hand as she cups Rosie’s head, keeping her protected.

Lately Molly’s been dreaming about Mary.

Rosie stirs a little and Molly makes a soothing noise at the back of her throat. She strokes through the soft hair on Rosie’s head, unable to stop herself. Such a tiny thing, a baby. Defenceless on their own. They need someone to be strong for them.

“One day,” she says, and her voice is croaky but it doesn’t crack. “One day I’ll tell you all about your mum. Because she was something special.”

She tucks in a stray corner of the blanket.

“Until then… I’ll be around. If you need me.”

Rosie’s little hand opens and closes and Molly slots her finger inside. Rosie latches on, grip solid even in sleep.

Molly nods. She’ll need to grip hard, in this world. She’ll need to be strong.

They both will.


End file.
